OBU says, shut it down. Is Donald Trump the ostensible head of the government, the Chief Executive? The Commander in Chief? Then there should not be a government for him to be head of. Let him do his act in front of no audience. Pull the plug. Put the cameras on something else. Evacuate Washington. He’ll walk out the door of the White House and no one will be there. He’ll wander the streets of Washington and it will be like a zombie movie, no one will be there. It will be like a neutron bomb went off at Dupont Circle. The city will be standing, but no one will be there.

A freezing rain will fall, slowly at first, then gaining intensity. Donald has forgotten his hat and has no umbrella. The Secret Service no longer is employed. The ice clogs his hair vent and his scalp makes hissing sounds. He looks around. He is bewildered at being alone, for it has been many years since he has experienced solitude. Donald is not frightened, for he has long since forgotten what fear feels like or the circumstances in which one might feel it. He looks around at the great city he has convinced himself he built himself, that did not exist before he entered it, that sprang into being with his immaculate election. “Look at my works, ye mighty, and despair,” Donald might think if such words could occur to him or be recollected by him. They cannot, so he thinks his Trumpish equivalent. “Do you love this? Don’t you love it? Where else can you see a Capitol like this. And it wasn’t like this before, you know that, right? We know that. Greatest Capitol ever, and I built it. (Check it out, losers. You’re very small. Write the check out to the Winner).” But where are his accolytes? The city is empty, and Donald is growing increasingly disoriented. He notices there are no mirrors here. Even the store windows give no reflections. Everything is opaque and somewhat granular.

Everything is opaque, except, he notices, himself. Donald notes, with a sudden horror of realization, that he is becoming transparent. His clothes–his warm coat and his suit and shirt and his socks and underwear–have disappeared; and he sees, not his nakedness, but a world beneath his skin. He staggers and falls to his knees in the wet snow. He sees through himself. He would not even know his own shape except that he perceives the outline in the air. The outlined shape is defined by his insides. It is dark. It is fluid. It is filled with small, quick monsters. There is no distinction between the circulation of blood, the flow of lymph, the intricate networks of neurons. Everything is compacted of these rapid creatures. They are, apparently, ravenous. They have devoured his biological pieces and replaced them. They are his blood and muscle and bones and nerves. They are now eating each other. Donald watches with some pleasure as his vessel destroys itself. It’s a great show. He wishes it were being filmed, the ratings would be amazing. He seems to have forgotten his phone, which surprises him.